


Behind our masks of steel We are made of flesh

by Oneroika_Lunae



Category: The Three Musketeers (2011)
Genre: Alexander Dumas must want me to burn in hell, But they made me, Can't believe what I'm going to write, Damn you Mads Mikelssen for being this good acting, I couldn't stop shipping them during the whole movie, I didn't want to do it, I'm this crazy, Jealous Buckingham, Jealous Rochefort, M/M, Persuasive frenchmen made me do it, Rochefort is the badguy he's not supposed to be one of my favorites, This starts very inocent but it's going to end up badly, especially for D'artagnan and Athos behind, wow this escalated quickly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 09:31:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4999609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oneroika_Lunae/pseuds/Oneroika_Lunae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Centered around the relationship between Rochefort and D'Artagnan, the adventures of the three musketeers and their loyal friend if the story was a tiny little bit different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A look from your eyes ( Rochefort I )

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooooooooooo I watched 2011 movie. This happened. Stupid and sensual Rochefort having eye sex with D'Artagnan at every scene. Stupid Buckingham insinuating that Athos likes to be on his knees in front of him. Seriously, it's all their fault.

Rochefort saw him coming from the dusty road on top of a mare that looked bigger than she was when compared to her rider. A lithe form surrounded by a dark cloak, the feathers of his hat bouncing with the movements. Rochefort felt his throat drying when he glimpsed his face. Young boy, with delicate features like an angel. 

He couldn't resist. He called to him. He wanted a reaction, a shout, a whimper, a cry. He wanted to hear his voice and see if it matched the rest of his otherworldly appeareance. He dind't mean to upset so much the boy, only a joke and a jape to pinch him and see how he squirmed. He didn't expect the boy to be so harsh, so brave, as to ask for a duel. And Rochefort felt a heaviness on his heart, for he was a lovely boy, handsome, and brave and hotheaded, but he could not appear weak before his men, and he would not suffer the wrath of the cardenal for the loss of those men should he spare the boy and execute the others. 

He takes a last look at his face to remember all the details of that esculpted jaw, the nose, those pink lips that asked to be kissed, the blue eyes, shinning with defiance with those long dark lashes like fans that make the boy look lustful and innocent at the same time. 

When Rochefort heard Milady's voice calling him, It was an anserw to his prayers. He was sad he had to give up such a treasure for his eyes, but he went with the woman nonetheless, hoping the youngling would continue his way to Paris. Hoping the gods would allow them to meet again.

He is distracted, while in the city, roaming lost in thought, haunted by blue eyes and a cocky smile. 

Rochefort is called away form his musings by the cardinal. Athos, Porthos and Aramis. Those three, who had been a thorn in his side from the very begining, would be at his mercy tomorrow at twelve o clock. He can't let them go, says Richelieu, no if he wants to be safe and sound back in his quarters the next day. Rochefort clenched his jaw and grimly rode to the place were they were supposed to be. He knows what the price of failure would be, and he won't pay it again. 

What a pleaseant surprise. What a lovely gift from fate herself. The young boy, D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan. His name is D'Artagnan. And the way he fights. Rocheforts trembles from head to toe, his passions burning bright while he watches how the young boy defeats his men, no matter what they do. What a charming lad, what a lithe body. His image burnt deeply inside Rochefort's memory. The captain frowns when he notices the young boy chatting with a young and pretty thing, blonde hair loose on the wind. 

In the end, his men have been defeated by the musketeers and Rochefort retreats, silently, unoticed, like a shadow. He hears how they cheer their youngest friend, his cunning and bravery. The boy will be tended to for that night. The king's men would provide food and wine and bed for D'Artagnan. Rochefort tries to picture his smile while he was flirting with the girl on the market and the fire on his eyes as he was fighting the soldiers. 

He tries to keep picturing the face of D'Artagnan as Richelieu whips his back unti it is a ruined mas of angry red and purple marks, and the cardinal's arms is tired of the weight of the whip and Rochefort has long since gave up triying to stand upright and let himself hang from the ceiling where the ropes are tiede tighly around his wrists and trough an iron ring in the ceiling, to the wall. Richelieu knows how to whip him so he would regret it and it would hurt like hell, but not enough for him to be crippled. At first Rochefort needed to rest after those punishments for days in bed, but time had built up his resistance and now he didn't even had that small mercy. Next morning, he would have to wake up, do his uniform and carry on his eminence's orders or be back to be punished again. 

Rocheford put salve on his wounds and bandage his ruined back before puting dark clothes on and slipping out of the palace unnoticed. Finding the musketeers's house wasn't difficult, nor it was climbing to an open window and finding the young angel sleeping unaware on a bed. D'Artagnan slept under a pile of blankets. He seemed to be naked, and Rochefort sat carefully by his side, contemplating the face and the eyes that were his only solace during his torment. 

The lovely face and haunting eyes of a young boy Rochefort barely knew. Someone he had only traded insults with. and yet. and yet, he wished, whe wnted, for the pretty boy to look at him, for the blue eyes to open and show something more than anger, a fire not caused by the thirst for revenge. Rochefort removed his leather glove to pass his fingertips across the young boy's cheek. to let those fingers roam though his face and his hair, were the played with the dark locks while Rochefort smiled. A shy smile, a tender smile, one reserved for lovers and precious sights like the one before his eye. 

Rochefort stared, and touched, and wished. D'Artagnan would join the musketeers. There would be other ocasions. other moments, other punishments. He had seen the boy fight, he had seen how compenetrated the four of them were. They would be a challenge to his skills, and the ones that will unkowningly bring him pain night after night until Richelieu had nothing between him and his prey. 

When sleep was taking it's toll and Rochefort needed to go back to his quarters and rest, for the next morning he will be Richelieu's slave again, forced to do his biding or risk new tortures to be inflicted upon his flesh, The captain reached for D'Artagnan, hand tangled in his dark mane, and gently, like a lover saying a last goodbye, he laid a chaste kiss on the pink lips of the boy. Rochefort stayed like that for seconds that felt like centuries, savouring the moment, memorizing the sensations, wanting, and wishing, and hoping he would be able to do this again. To touch this piece of heaven while the rest of his life was a living hell. 

With a sight, he got up and dragged himself to the chilly night and the streets of Paris. When he was called to serve the cardinal he had been a young man, cocky and inexperienced. Very much like D'Artagnan, though with more common sense and a wicked tonge. He had been proud of being chosen, of being a captain, of being in Paris. Soon that had turned into a nightmare when Richelieu wrapped his evil arms around him, tangling him with his vicious plots, blackmailing him to do his bidding, punishing him when he failed. He had cried, and prayed. He had lost lovers, and family for his failures. He had wished for a liberation that never came. Maybe was the reflection of what he himself was years ago reflected on D'Artagnan was what drew him to the boy. Maybe. But Rochefort knew it wasn't it. For he wanted the boy, wanted his body, wanted his heart, wanted his soul. Rochefort smiled. He had become a dark monster even when he never wanted to end like this. 

There had to be a way. One way or another, Rochefort wanted to feel again that little spark of happines, of belonging and peace he felt when he kissed D'Artagnan. And he was nothing but resorceful. 

The captain undressed and laid on his bed, wishing for another to share it with him, drifting into a sleep where blue eyes smiled at him and pink lips traced his scars and healed his bruises with their touch, in a place where Richelieu and his tortures were a mere ghost.


	2. A word from your lips (D'Artagnan I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rochefort is not the only one who got infatuated at first sight, but D'Artagnan doesn't know how to deal with his atraction to Rechefort.

D'Artagnan thought he was still dreaming until it felt far too real to be a dream. Yet, he dare not rise, for fear Rochefort may withdraw too early and leave him wanting for more.

 

The man infuriated him at the same time that make his soul burn. It was a shame he hadn't duel him. The best sword of all Europe the others had said. He had been interested from the very moment he laid eyes on him, and his words towards his horse only made him notice his voice, his body, the way he held himself. He had aproached him only to get a better look, he had spoken just to hear his voice again. D'Artagnan knew he was in trouble the very moment he challenged the other man, he knew when the lines around the other's mouth tightened and his eyes become cold and calculating, yet still their intensity made D'Artagnan's heart flutter and his head felt lighter than usual.A siren. His Siren.

then the shot. Sush fury as he had never know before such betrayal, his very soul triying to fight back even when his doom drawned near. He thought of his family, of his land, of how little time he had had before his cockiness cost him his life. 

He cursed Rochefort's voice, his words, enticing like a siren's spell, a sweet song to lure him to his death.Even when he didn't know his name, D'Artagnan's heart named him Siren, and so he reamined for the long years they met each other, so he called to him in privacy, so he cried in ecctasy when he thought of his eyes and body that night in the inn, even wounded, his ody ablaze with adrenaline and the ardor of youth.

The intervention of the lady spared his life, and D'Artagnan was both grateful and furious. Who was the woman who pulled the leash of such a man? The woman whose words, softly spoken, had called him to her side, away from D'Artagnan. Was she his wife? or the wife of his patron? was she his mistress? was she his sister? or maybe a daughter? D'Artagnan expent the rest of the day and the whole trip to Paris thinking of that man, of that woman, of the bewitching voice that invaded his dreams whispering words that weren't threats at all. 

In Paris, Lady Luck favored him again, for D'Artagnan saw him in the distance, and though he got himself on trouble and couldn't get to him in time, for he dissapeared in the crowd before D'Artagnan could grab his arm, he learnt his name. Rochefort. Rochefort. His name was Rochefort, captain of the Cardinal's Guard, The best Sword of Europe. D'Artagnan felt proud of his siren, even when he wondered how he could have three duels that very day. 

he wasn't really thinking of fighting all those guards.... until he looked up and saw his Siren looking at him from his perch on his horse. He felt the need to show off, to make sure the other man saw how fast he was, of how skilled with a blade, how flexible and resilient. Did he saw? Saw him take down his men, no matter what? Did Rochefor notice him as much as D'Artagnan himself wanted him? He was sure he hadn't. That thought depressed the young man more than other. 

The musketeers were very kind to him, his very first friends in Paris, his mentors, he thought, they gave him shelter and food and bed, for a price, but still, they helped him. 

That night D'Artagnan washes himself and lays on the bed when, in turn, every musketeer came to his room with a spare blanket, looked at the other piled on his lap, smiled, and covered him in another extra layer of warmth, leaving with a smile and good cheer. Knowing that his brothers thought exactly the same as he did. D'Artagnan waited under the blankets until the house was quiet, until not a mouse moved, before taking off his breaches and shirt until he laid bare on the warm sheets.

He caressed his body, thinking of the wasy Rochefort moved, as in a dance wich music only was listened by his ears. He thought of the body beneath the clothes, strong and powerful, as the best sword of europe must had, and D'Artagnan thought of his siren's voice, calling to him, talking filthy words in his ear as he was pressed back into his powerfull chest, the ponytail of the other man tickling his cheek. He stroked himself to completion, biting gently down the covers to hide the sounds that threateaned to leave his lips and deonounce him beofre the whole house as a traitor for the desire he harboured for who seemed to be a sore spot for the three musketeers, one of their enemies.

D'Artagnan knew someone was in the room with him, and at first thought it was one of the others, until the person sat down in his bed and the musk and the unique scent of Rochefort reached his nostrils. He faked being sleep, and waited. Was he here to kill him?? was he here for him? was this a fantasy? did he died and went to heaven? or was it hell?

His siren's fingers grazed his cheek, his lips, his jaw. It descended to his neck and D'Artagnan had to repress a shiver. He willed himself to stillness, because he was sure Rochefort would leave if he stirred. Those sinful fingers touched his bared shoulders and caressed a nipple until it pebbled. 

And then they were in his hair, touching, caresing, and D'Artagnan thought this had to be the most exquisit of tortures. 

Then there was the touch of chapped lips upon his own, and he felt himself melt at the same time the fingers in his hair became more forceful, more commanding, as Rochefort kissed him.

The moment was over and Rochefort sighted before leaving as quietly as he entered, and D'Artagnan was glad that the blankets hid from the captain the reaction his body had to his attentions. Ah, his Siren. It was going to be his death one day. He knew it. But until then, D'Artagnan would pursue him, now that he knew he wouldn't be rejected. 

But that would have to wait. There were more urgent matters that required his attention. Joining the musketeers, the visit to the king the very next day and, more inmediatly, the furious throbbing between his legs. 

D'Artagnan let his hand descend, he would have to wash the shirt he used to clean himself tomorrow morning, if he keeped up like this.


	3. The sight of your skin ( Buckingham I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Buckingham sees Athos, is because of Louis. At least the idiot child kingg has good ideas.

The tedious day was warm and sweat made the layers of soft clothing feel like a prison that constricted his body and suffocated him without any possibility of escape. 

The court of King Louis was a boring place that generally gave Buckingham a huge headache. The french brat was beyond his diplomatic skills. One week and he was ready to return to England, even when the trip was long and uncorfortable.

For the day the brat wanted to show off his personal guard, The Musketeers. Buckingham didn't expected much, since this foolish child surely wouldn' t have a bunch of trained soldiers, surely they would have relaxed under the king's blind gaze until the once proud soldiers there nothing but brawling drunks.

He felt his mouth drying and he saw Milady by his side stiffening when they arrived to the courtyard. The musketeers there training under the sun, with boots and breeches but few wore a shirt, and those who wore it left the thing opened showing their chest. The skin in dislay wasn' t what stoped him. If was the swordman in the middle of the ground that was holding his ground against tour other soldiers and smiled while he fought. Milady chose that moment to hide her face behind her fan and Buckingham knew he would be able to get información from her later. For now he was content only watching. Two men watched from the sidelines, smiling and amused by the way the four oponents were kissing the dirt. 

The soldier then finished the last of his rivales and stoped to sweep the sweat from his forehead and then looked in their direction ( Milady was now with the rest of the french, and he knew she didn't want the soldier to see where she stood) the man winked, because Buckingham was sure that was a wink, in Milady's direction before he removed his shirt. 

He stared, lips parted in awe, to the creamy skin marked with silver scars that the shirt reveled.

He felt lust coursing trough his body as he visualiced himself mouthing those scars, kissing them and licking them as the soldier, fingers playing with his locks and roaming before they fisted his hair, told him the stories behind each of them. He would worship those marks, those imperfections that made the man even more perfect. 

He wanted him.

Buckingham was never denied.

He would be his.

Eyes always in his muketeer, he praised the soldiers and clapped his hands when the brat required a stroke to his childish ego. In his mind he was carefully disrobing the other man, taking his uniform one piece of cloth at the time until he was bare before his eyes, letting Buckingham worship the man's body and reciprocating the atentions, leaving Buckingham a shivering mess in the bed as those callused hands touched and teased, this strong and skilled man, for whom the fight was a dance where he didn't have a match. 

He barely noticed when they walked away, not until his soldier could not be seen and he had to sight and try to remember every little detail.

That very night he went to Milady. As secretive and closed she was, as they played their game of seducción and extortion, He goaded her to speak about a man that has gotten under their skin. ( It didn't matter. The soldier was his, Milady would not stand between them of she would be removed)

Athos, Athos, Comte de la Fere. Olivier. 

He didn't like being called Olivier.

The rest of his visit was expent watching the corners where the musketeers stood guarda, always looking for him, always following around, a legion of spies surrounding him, unnoticed, bringing Buckingham information of his tastes his friends his lovelife. One brought back a portrait of the man rising from bed, naked. Buckingham killed the informant, so no one else would knew, and kept the picture, so perfect that it hurt, and for months he went to bed thinking of white creamy skin glistening in the sun, of callused hands, and blues eyes that winked at him, mischivous, as soft lips traced his skin.

In his dreams, it wasn't soldier, it wasn't musketeers, it wasn't Athos. In his dreams, when he called to the man he desired so much, it was always Olivier. Buckingham always woke up with a smile, and step by step he planed the perfect way to get his musketeer.

He only needed time, after all, he always got what he wanted.


	4. Driving me mad, bit by bit ( Athos)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos thoughts about Buckingham

Athos felt his eyes on him at all times. That pompous, insufferable nobleman. The Duke. 

Everytime he had to scort him was torture. Athos felt naked as a newborn under his stare. MIlady brushed away all his complaints, saying he was just jelous of all the time she spent with the Duke.

Like he was going to be jelous of such a git. 

Not like he felt on fire everytime he caught him staring. Not like he was going to admit it.

He wasn't like that.

He wasn't going to change.

He loved Milady.

Buckingham could stare and try to make him unconfortable. Athos snorted. He could try, but he would not succeed.

Athos knew something was going on.

Oh, he knew this was that stupid Duke's doing. Suddenly, he was asigned to guard their noble guest. To stay by his side at all times.

This man was getting on Athos nerves. And that was a hard task to accomplish. Buckingham achieved it by flirting with Milady at all times while Athos had to watch and feel his rival's eyes roaming all over his body. 

Athos hated it.

Athos hated the impotence he felt as Milady batted her eyelashed and smiled and laughed before the duke. He hated the way those eyes seemed full of passion and dark promises.

An what Athos hated the most, was the way It made him feel being around the Duke.

The worst was yet to come. 

Athos was sent to guard THE INSIDE of the chamber, while Buckingham bathed, in case he was attacked. Fine. Attacking the man during the bath would be a good strategy, but still, no need for Athos to have to watch while Buckingham undressed and walked around stark naked because "We are both men, aren't we? nothing you hadn't seen before, I'm sure" Athos had seen a lot of naked bodies. He shared the barracks with his comrades, after all. But none of them had smooth skin, free of scars, be it because of the duke's skill or the skill of his bodyguards. The toasted expanse of BUckingham's skin seemed wrong to Athos. It was wrong. It needed to be marked. to be marred. Athos wanted to tear him apart with his teeth, leave the impressions of his fangs in that sikly smooth skin. 

HIs eyes seemed glued to the Duke's ass. Athos felt himself grow hard and cursed the day he crossed paths with George Villiers Duke of Buckingham. 

The duke had entered the bath, and seemed a bit loss before calling to him

"Soldier...?" "Athos, my lord" he would never be his lord. That tempting, flirtatious man. He didn't deserve his respect. 

"Athos, they have misplaced the soap, Bring it to me?" Athos then had to give the man the damn soap, and watched as Buckingham cleaned himself throroughly. 

He didn't undertand what game was playing the man. He didn't understand the fierce erection that pressed to his breeches and He couldn't understand the sudden need to kiss the other man. To touch him. To... to bed him.

Athos hated Buckingham.

Hated him so much.

He was driving him mad, bit by bit, with his eyes, his voice, his skin. Athos was strong, and stubborn. He would not yield. He would not.

Whatever the game, he would triumph

**Author's Note:**

> Again I found that one of my favourite pairings has little to none fics here. Here I am to change that. 
> 
> I hope you liked my work. Please, comment or leave a kudo, because that feeds my inspiration and helps me write. Also, any advice will be welcome, after all, I started at this a few weeks ago and I apreciate the guidance.
> 
> Love you all
> 
> Luna


End file.
